A name. A life.
I remember the days of pregnancy, contemplating names. Dreaming of what my child would become and do.
There is so much in a name.
I would say names out loud to see how they sounded. I’d write names down to make sure they looked good in my handwriting. I’d sit and rub my belly and pray for the baby that would come.
So did these moms.
Trayvon Martin’s mom.
Tamir Rice’s mom.
Michael Brown’s mom.
Eric Garner’s mom.
Philando Castile’s mom.
Breonna Taylor’s mom.
George Floyd’s mom.
All mothers who created babies. Babies that grew up. Babies that became adults.
Babies that became statistics. Babies gone, forever.
Trayvon Martin.
Tamir Rice.
Michael Brown.
Eric Garner.
Philando Castile.
Breonna Taylor.
George Floyd.
Names of lives lost.
Names of lives shattered by racism and hate and misunderstanding.
Names of someone’s son or daughter.
Names of someone’s dad or friend.
Names splattered in the media, forgetting the depth behind the word written.
Behind each name is a life.
A loved one.
A person that is more than the sum of their mistakes.
A person that didn’t deserve to die.
A person that should still be here today.
A person, a name, a life, that is now a legacy for change and equality.
A person that didn’t choose to be an example, they died and became one.
There is so much in a name.
And I pray we stop adding to the list, and instead, start learning from it.
